


A Necessary Distraction

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [5]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Anachronisms, Dexter POV, Dexter is doing the best he can, Dialogue, First War With Mevolent, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gracious invented uno, Hopeless lives up to their name, How on earth do I tag this fic, Larrikin maintains morale, Nonbinary Character, Skulduggery is trolling Ravel, UNO, fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25165282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: The Dead Men are hiding in a safe house. Mevolent's men are after them. To handle the tension, Larrikin introduces them to a game Gracious made up, which Larrikin calls "you know".Or, Larrikin is ridiculous, Hopeless is stressed, and Dexter tries to hold them all together.
Relationships: The Dead Men's Friendships
Series: Dead Men Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	A Necessary Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WintersCurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintersCurse/gifts).



> Thanks WintersCurse, for the request. This became more of an exploration of how the Dead Men handle being trapped in a safe house than a simple game of uno, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless. 
> 
> (Whenever Larrikin calls uno "you know", please imagine it in a semi-broad Australian accent. Thanks.)

The barn is surprisingly warm. On the outside it looks battered, as if one gust of wind could cave the roof in and shatter the whole structure into a pile of splintered wood. Within, the only remaining features from its past life are the solid oak beams arching overhead. The walls are whitewashed. There are even separate bedrooms. Everything they need for the next two weeks are within these four walls. Isn’t that a horrible thought.

It’s difficult for Dexter not to drag the others away from the windows. Larrikin is peering out from the highest, auburn hair all on end like a cat’s. Saracen and Ghastly are watching through the lowest glass panes, looking out on the events unfolding down in the city. Dexter wants to yell at them all to _hide, idiots, don’t you remember that they’re after us_! He wants to retreat to his and Larrikin’s bedroom and remember how to breathe. Instead he stands by the fireplace and tries to focus.

Erskine is parsing through documents in the corner of the central living space they are all currently occupying. His brown hair is unbrushed, his shoulders curved. Shudder is either cleaning daisy or simply patting the gun like a pet. Either option is plausible. Skulduggery is humming to himself on an armchair.

“Hopeless, why don’t you come down from there?” Ghastly calls.

Hopeless is sitting cross-legged on one of the high roof beams, high above the rest of them. Vex can only see the top of their head, black hair fading into shadow. They have their arms around their legs. Their knees are pulled close to their chin, a little distant ball.

“Not unless you all stop stressing,” they say quietly. And then they put their head back on their knees.

The rest of the Dead Men exchange glances. Hopeless has only recently explained their magical discipline. It’s still strange for them to be open about its effects. Hopeless is a fear-mage. They can manipulate others’ fears. They can also be overwhelmed by them.

Still, it’s a hard ask just to expect them all to stop stressing. The Diablerie had set them a trap so well thought-out they almost didn’t notice it. Capture had been a very near thing. Now they’re in the safe house waiting for the coast to clear. Outside the barn Mevolent’s army is swarming Galway. It’s likely that it’ll be weeks before they stop searching for them.

These are the sorts of odds that people only ever lose to.

Dexter looks up at the window, to see the light in Larrikin’s eyes. It’s a common, familiar look, one that makes Dexter somewhat intrigued but also concerned. Larrikin has a plan, and he intends to pull everyone else into it.

Larrikin claps his hand. “Alright! Let’s play cards.”

Saracen peers at Larrikin doubtfully. “I’m not wagering against you again. You cheat.”

“Not gambling, you skank,” Larrikin says, with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not a skank,” Saracen mutters. Dexter grins.

Larrikin hops down from his perch at the high window. It’s a decent drop. Dexter’s gaze follows him as he pounces on his rucksack, and emerges with a small cardboard box brandished in his hand.

“Let’s play you know.” Larrikin says.

“What the what now?” Dexter asks.

Anton shifts, looking up from his massive gun. Saracen also seems interested.

“You know, the game Gracious made up!” Larrikin says. “I think he ripped off another game, but hey, this one’s decent and there’s no gambling involved, _Saracen_.”

“Did you steal Gracious’ cards?” Saracen asks, half-laughing.

“He had so many.” Larrikin complains. “And he refused to give me any because ‘intellectual property, _Larrikin_ ’.” He mimics an awful English accent, and Dexter grins wider. Larrikin is perfectly capable of mimicking numerous accents perfectly; he’s being deliberately terrible this time. Gracious isn't even English. 

“He wants to patent the game?” Saracen frowns. “Really? Why on earth?”

“I don’t know. Anyway. You and Dexter and Anton have played, we just need to teach the others.”

“I don’t know how to play this,” Dexter says. “I know how to play the game ‘uno’ that Gracious made, I’ve never heard of this ‘you know’.”

Larrikin pokes his tongue out at him, and hops to the space at the centre of the living room, between all the armchairs. He starts counting out hands for everyone, placing the cards face down on the floor. Saracen walks over and sits beside him. Anton discards daisy and accepts the hand that’s passed to him. Bit by bit everyone forms a rough circle, except for Hopeless on their high perch and Erskine.

“Come on Ravel,” Shudder says. “If I’m being subjected to this then you are too.”

“Play without me,” Erskine says distractedly.

Larrikin sighs, exasperated, and drops the cards to walk over to Erskine. He peers over Ravel’s shoulder and grabs the parchment he’s consulting. Larrikin glances over it once, cursorily.

“Why on earth is Mist writing to you?” Larrikin says. “Huh, her writing’s quite neat, I thought it’d be spidery.”

“Give that here,” Erskine says.

“Not unless you come and play cards with us.”

Erskine’s gold eyes are exasperated, but for once he doesn’t look tired, just vaguely grumpy and definitely stressed.

“I don’t want to, I’ve stuff to do.”

Larrikin snorts. “Come on. It’ll be good to relax.” He gestures upwards at Hopeless, and murmurs something in Ravel’s ear. Erskine sighs, grabs the letter back and shoves it in his pocket, meandering over to the circle.

“Come on, Ravel love!” Rue says, grinning.

Erskine smiles at him, and then takes his cards and leans against the nearest seat. The others are already consulting their hands. Dexter looks at his. The cards are hand drawn and messy. 

“So how do you play this?”

“Alright. We all start with seven cards. The aim is to get rid of all your cards. You can put down a card that matches the colour or number of the previous one. When you’re down to one card you must say you know, before anyone else plays, or you pick up a card. First to get rid of all their cards wins. It’s very simple.”

“What?” Ghastly says.

“Uno. You say, uno.” Dexter says. “It’s Spanish for ‘one’.”

“All right, Mr Dexter ‘I know Spanish look at me’ Vex,” Larrikin says.

“You speak Spanish too,” Dexter protests.

“Does Gracious have Spanish roots?” Ghastly asks.

“No. He’s from Belfast.”

“Then why don’t we just say ‘one’?” Skulduggery asks.

“Because those aren’t the rules!” Larrikin says. “Anyway, everyone clear on what to do?”

“No.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know how to play this.”

“Saracen you were there when Gracious taught us it.” Larrikin says.

“Let’s just start,” Erskine says.

Larrikin flips over the topmost card on the deck. From the splash of paint, the colour is red, and it’s a 2. Dexter looks at his hand. He’s the person to start.

“What do I do if I don’t have any reds?”

“Pick up a card,” Anton says, and he throws it at Dexter like a weapon. Dexter snatches it out of the air. It’s a red three.

Skulduggery puts down a red card with a scrawled plus two in its centre.

“What does this do?” The skeleton asks.

“Ravel has to pick up two cards.” Anton says.

“Even I could guess that,” Erskine mutters. He picks up two cards with a grimace. “Thanks, Skulduggery.”

“Ever a pleasure.”

Round they go. Rue continually asks how to play, though Dexter notices he never puts down a wrong card. Skulduggery keeps making Erskine pick up cards. By the time Ravel has sixteen cards he’s scowling.

“Thanks, you skeletal bastard.”

Skulduggery tilts his head back, content.

“Larrikin, what do the S shapes mean?” Ghastly asks.

“Huh? Oh, that’s a Reverse card. It means we start playing in the opposite direction.” Larrikin says. He’s lying flat on his back, deciding to throw his cards at the growing pile instead of placing it down like a normal human being. Dexter sighs and takes his card from his hand before he chucks it, placing it down on the pile with exaggerated delicacy.

“Interesting,” Ghastly says, and he plays the reverse card like he was born to do it.

“Good,” Erskine says, with satisfaction, and when it’s his turn he plays a plus four to Skulduggery with much glee. It’s the first card he has successfully played. “Quince.”

Round and round they go, and each time Erskine plays a card he declares his remaining number of cards in Spanish. By the time he’s at cinco, it’s getting a little annoying.

“You don’t need to count down every card, Erskine,” Ghastly says.

“Cuatro. Huh?” Erskine asks, with a too wide, belligerent grin.

“Nevermind,” Ghastly says.

Dexter is itching to get up and look out the window. He hates this hiding, this almost apathy, this humour. They should be fighting.

“Dex,” Larrikin bats his leg with his hand. “Card please.”

Dexter forces himself to look at Larrikin, and plays the man’s card for him, and then his own. Hopeless remains high above them. Dexter wonders how badly afraid his comrades must be, for Hopeless to have to retreat so pointedly.

“So,” Larrikin says. They had just made dinner. Hopeless had climbed down to help clean, and they are now standing in the corner of the room. “I have a question.”

“If it’s about strategy or escape plans or retaliation, maybe now’s not the time,” Erskine says, and Dexter glances at him to see that the man is staring at Hopeless, forehead crinkled.

“I absolutely agree,” Larrikin says solemnly. “How does everyone feel about playing uno again?”

Erskine scowls. “Not if Pleasant’s going to bully me again.”

“I played within the rule, right Larrikin?” Skulduggery asks, placidly.

“Anyone else?” Larrikin asks. He receives silence or half-hearted responses. He throws his hands into the air. “Well, that’s all I’ve got for us to do, and unless you want our fear-mage to explode, we need to do something to unwind.”

Hopeless’ shoulders hunch, and they curl a little tighter in their armchair in the corner.

“Well …” Saracen starts. There’s something in his voice that Dexter doesn’t like.

“No.” Skulduggery says.

“But …”

“No,” The skeleton repeats.

“What then?” Saracen says.

“I’m thinking,” Pleasant says.

Larrikin saunters over to Saracen, and swoons in his arms. Rue’s face is momentarily stunned.

“There there Rue,” Larrikin says. “I still love you, even if Skulduggery doesn’t.”

“I can see that, Larrikin. Don’t you have a lover to throw yourself at?”

Dexter waves a hand. “Have at it.”

Saracen splutters, but Larrikin laughs. Dexter glances over at Hopeless. Their grey eyes don’t meet his, they are much too fascinated by the delicate paisley patterns on the armrest. Dexter grabs Erskine's sleeve and drags him to the side.

"What's up with them?" Dexter asks quietly, tilting his head toward their silent friend.

Erskine glances at Hopeless and shrugs. "You know as well as I."

"Aye, because they haven't been telling you what's on their mind? They tell you everything."

"Mostly everything. Why don't you ask them yourself?"

"They look like they might stab me."

The two men look at Hopeless. Everything about their posture screams a warning, as if they are some sort of uptight hedgehog with poisonous spikes. Behind Erskine and Vex the others are either wrestling or murdering each other, from the noise. Dexter doesn't bother to check. Instead he tries to examine Hopeless' expression. Their lips are so thinly pressed together that they are almost invisible. They look at the two slowly, expression blank.

"Talking about me?"

"He wants to know why you're upset," Erskine says.

"I told you. It's my discipline."

“Tell me what it’s like?” Dexter asks, walking over until he’s leaning against the wall next to Hopeless’ chair.

“Why on earth do you want to know that?” 

“So I can understand,” Vex says quietly. “If I understand I can help.”

He reaches a hand out for Hopeless’ but they flinch, so he retracts it quickly.

“Sorry,” Hopeless says.

“Don’t,” Dexter says. He presses his palms to his face for a moment, waits.

“It’s not just your fears,” Hopeless says. “I can usually handle those. It’s the fears of everyone out there too. The mortals. Mevolent's soldiers. Meritorious' army, when they still were here.”

“Ah.” Dexter has no idea what else to say.

“I can’t breathe properly,” they add. Their tone is forcefully conversational, as if they were talking about the weather.

“You know the solution to this?” Larrikin bounds over.

“Clearly not,” Hopeless says. Their hands are shaking. 

“Alcohol,” Larrikin says.

“Is that really a good …” Dexter starts.

Hopeless sits up straighter. “All right then.”

“Alcohol, and uno,” Larrikin adds. 

This time there are less protests. Hopeless joins the circle, and accepts a hand of cards. Erskine moves to sit beside them, and when he leans gently against their side, they return the gesture. Dexter tries to push away the crowding fears, and consider his hand, listening to Larrikin's quips all the while.

Outside, he knows, Mevolent's men are breaking down doors and searching homes and threatening their comrades. Inside, Larrikin is swearing at Skulduggery, and Ghastly is laughing quietly to himself. Erskine is pontificating about Marxist philosophy with a little too much enthusiasm, and Hopeless is sitting quietly and still, eyes on their cards. Saracen plays a skip card with manufactured glee. The moon shifts out from under the night clouds, shining in through the highest window. It turns Larrikin's green eyes silver, just for a moment. Dexter breathes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may continue this fic.


End file.
